From A Different Window Seat…

Due to the the extensive interstate and non-interstate travel of my youth, through my teens, and into my adult life, when I fly anywhere in the United States and look down, I’m certain to have driven on the roads below.  

Beyond the large and obvious landmarks of The Tetons, the Grand Canyon, and the Mississippi River, I always know what region I’m flying over, what towns and cities are below, and which roads break it all up. Flying over the United States is like being in a time machine that, in just a few hours, can visit every age of my life.

Last week, enroute to San Miguel de Allende, in the Mexican state of Guanajuato, my flying experience was changed. Flying over the interior of Mexico, though I’ve been on a few roads and through a few regions, was strange. No less spectacular than flying over the American southwest, but foreign. No hillside, lake, village, nor road seen from above had ever been in my view before.

I looked for all the usual suspects — Shiprock in New Mexico, Lake Mead, the Colorado River, but nothing. The land formations, washes, and all the towns and villages were a mystery. As I took it all in, I couldn’t help but think the natives looking out the windows in front of and behind me, might know every square mile. At one point, flying over a massive body of water, I tried to recall what the largest lake in Mexico was. It had escaped me that I’d be flying over the Gulf Of Baja. One of my favorite places on earth to be on the shoreline, is differently spectacular from above. 

I thought about culture too. My daughter, an archaeologists, once told me that the word culture can’t be defined. I might’ve been the lone American male on my flight. I was also the only one in short pants with a ponytail. The other men, regardless of age, wore denim pants, leather shoes, and had well-groomed hair — and their shirts tucked in. Nearly every woman, regardless of age, had their dark straight hair pulled back in long ponytails. Despite my daughter’s edict to the contrary, I think that’s the very definition of culture.

My return flight, from Guanajuato to Tijuana was different — it was at night. Flying over the United States at night, I know well the difference between the lights of St. George Utah, Flagstaff Arizona, or the quad-cities of Illinois and Iowa. When I see a narrow line of lights stretching 100-miles in length from south to north, and it’s bordered by complete blackness to the west, I’m looking down on the cities of Colorado’s front range. 

Flying over Mexico at night was guesswork. Dozens, hundreds of clusters of lights below were indistinguishable — just a scattering of small towns and villages flickered into the slowly moving horizon. A half-dozen large cities surprised me. Maybe they were home to a half-million or a million people — I don’t know. They existed though, in airborne anonymity to me. I had no idea where I was.

Last week’s trip is a story for another blog — or two. Flying to and from though, wasn’t so much a reminder of how small the world I live in is. It was a reminder that the world beyond my world, though not infinite, is spectacularly large — and largely unexplored by me.

This is what I think about when I fly… Jhciacb 

If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Graham Nash. Enjoy…!

All photos were taken with an iPhone 11, and with no color adjustments — only slight contrast adjustments when needed.

For Every (Fetter)man…

I spent a lot of my rolling time this week, thinking about Senator John Fetterman. More specifically, about the public perception of Fetterman‘s choice to take leave of his Senate seat, to address a mental health concern. Fetterman has dealt with depression, intermittently, throughout his adult life. According to sources, that depression became more severe after a recent stroke. Approximately 1/3rd of all stroke survivors experience some level of depression.

Members of the opposing political party, and some media outlets supporting that party, were quick to call for Fetterman’s resignation. They argued that someone dealing with a mental health issue was not fit to execute the responsibilities of that job. If living and dealing with mental a health issue precludes one from performing their job, at least half of America should be out of work, according to that reasoning. Fetterman’s decision to do what’s in the best interest of his mental health, is not only admirable, it was brave. It sets an example for others, that mental health should be addressed — like any other illness.

When past members of the senate and the house of representatives have dealt with physical issues such as heart disease, cancer, and other debilitating physical issues, their constituencies, as well as their contemporaries from both parties, have supported them. Failing to do this for a mental health issue sends a horrible message to the tens of millions of Americans who are already afraid to take that step into the hospital that Fetterman took last week — to get help. 

This shouldn’t be a partisan or a media thing. The stigma associated with mental illness is the largest barrier between those who need help, and the help that’s available to them. That we stand up for and support people dealing with cancer, heart disease, and other physical illnesses, but wince or belittle someone who struggles with mental health, is to our national shame. 

I’ve lived with mental health issues since I can remember. I can’t count the times that, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day, I’ve thought about stopping whatever I was doing and checking myself into a hospital — because I felt I was profoundly incompatible with the world around me. And for that precise fear of being stigmatized, outcast, or perhaps put in the wrong level of treatment, I John Wayne’d my way through it, finding therapy in exercise, writing, and for 10 years of my life, through alcohol. Somehow, and by the grace of God, I’ve managed to stay ahead of it, though the shadow of depression still leans over me regularly.

Until we view and discuss mental illness in the same way we see cancer, heart disease, or rheumatoid arthritis, people will be afraid to seek treatment they need, and the problem will cascade, only to grow larger, and larger still. Regardless of your political persuasion, or what your agenda is in the voting booth, we should support Senator Fetterman in the same way we would support our own child. He set an excellent example for the millions of people who are hesitant to take the exact step that he took — a step that may have saved his life.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

If you dig it, please share and help spread the word. Oh, and there’s this from Tex Perkins and Murray Paterson. Enjoy…!

The Facebook Prison Blues…

Facebook Prison changes a man. The moment that silicon door slammed behind me, a shudder ran up my spine — it came straight from the devil. When I heard that key slowly turn to close the cyber lock, my soul became void of love and emotion. Facebook prison is colder than a pimp’s heart.

I’d been there before — accused, tried, and convicted of so-called crimes I felt were innocent acts of simple amusement, misunderstood by the algorithms. There’s no judicial process in social media though, just an invisible kangaroo court that tilt the scales of justice toward the billionaires.

My first prison sentence was in June of 2021. I’d suggested in a Facebook comment thread that we should still burn witches. I received a six-day sentence. In hindsight, I see the foolishness of that remark. If I’d only suggested we drown witches, I probably could’ve gotten away with it. At the very least, if I’d used drowning instead of burning, I could’ve built a strong defense on my behalf.

In August of 2022, I got sent before the algorithms for the second time. I posted a GIF of the television character, Al Bundy, pretending to hang himself. That the GIF was available on Facebook to begin with, was never taken into consideration. I should’ve known better though — on social media, talking about anything violent, is as good as doing it. It’s like the algorithms are Catholic or something. Another six-day sentence.

Last week, someone posted a picture of a cat with a transparent cone on its head, showing its teeth in anger. I captioned the meme…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll kill you…“

I should have written…

“I’m a martini, and I’ll beat you up real real bad…“

Would’ve made all the difference.

On my first day in Facebook prison, my only meal was a meatball, with no sauce, just like Cosby got on his first day. I slept on a cold bed of stainless steel — with no blanket. My cell-mate was a deaf, mute with a nervous tick. He used his spork to carve the following sentence onto the cell wall…

“I’m in for using a potty word…“

All through my first night, I heard other prisoners coughing, crying, and lashing out — it was like in asylum in the third world. I just lay in my bed, shaking and wishing it were all a bad dream. The following morning I was issued me my first blanket — it was made of straw. Breakfast was a cucumber. I was shown to my job at the prison laundry, but given no instructions. I just sat all day, and huffed laundry soap.

On the fifth day, the algorithms contacted me via email — bad news. A seventh day had been added to my six-day sentence. I’d been caught attempting to create a false Facebook profile, as a way around my initial sentence. I was told that any further attempt, and I’d be given a life sentence. I thought of my brother, Mark, now in the third year of his life sentence, and the anguish my mother felt the day they closed the door behind him.

I’ve accepted my sentence and will serve it quietly. I’ll do my best to rehabilitate myself, and to resist the temptation to post questionable memes, use potty words, and make threats against witches. With good behavior I’ll be out Monday evening at 5:45 PST. 

To those who’ve stuck with me, and believed in my innocence, I thank you. To everyone who’s reached out; your support in this lonely time has been invaluable. I’ll do my best to honor the trust you’ve shown me, by not putting myself in this position again. Ah, who am I kidding…? I’ll be back — I am a recidivist, repeat offender.

This is what I think about when I ride…   Jhciacb 

This week by the numbers :

Bikes Ridden: 4

Miles: 146

Climbing: 6,500’

MPH AVG: 15.0

Calorie: 8,200

Seat Time: 9h 45m

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Chesterfield Kings. Enjoy…

The Quiet Session…

Mondays are busy days. When they’re over, I hit the road and attempt to decompress from the conversations of the day. Conversations go with the gig, but talking with different personalities all day, on a variety of topics, can scramble my brain.

My last Monday client though, well, he doesn’t talk much. He’s apprehensive to speak — because he’s unsure of everything. He lives with Alzheimer’s. He’s the only client who doesn’t come to my studio. I go to his house, because he’s unable to drive.

Despite that I see him twice a week, he doesn’t remember my name. He recognizes my face though, when we meet at the front door. He smiles as we shake hands, and he shows me to his home gym like an old friend. The moment we make eye contact, I sense he’s comfortable with me, even if a little confused. On a visceral level, he recognizes routine, and senses safety.

I ask him if he’s ready to exercise. Without saying a word, he nods in the affirmative. I explain the first exercise to him as though he’s never done it before. I then demonstrate it, because that dials him in. And so it goes for the next 55-minutes. I explain the exercise, demonstrate the exercise, and he subsequently performs them — perfectly.

Part of my approach in putting clients at ease, is by making conversation in-between exercises. Sometimes it’s light, other times we try and solve the problems of the world. With this client though, every question is a surprise that he has no answer for. So in-between exercises, the only thing we talk about is the exercise itself. Small talk isn’t an option.

And the thing is, despite that he can’t name the exercises, or even the trainer, he’s committed and works out hard. He lets me push him, and he enjoys it. The familiarity of being pushed, and the routine of it is a portal away from his dementia, if only for an hour. I often think if he had the stamina and I had the time, he’d exercise with me all day long. Throughout the workouts, the only words he speaks are to ask me if he’s doing the exercises properly. I reassure him, and do so with sincerity. Did I mention he’s in his 80s…?

And that’s the extent of it. I show up, we make eye contact, he works hard for an hour, and I leave. And though other clients might read this, I have no problem saying, my workouts with this man are often my best Monday sessions. Two people connect for a common cause, and both benefit. I have a client whose express purpose is to exercise properly. And he has a companion he feels safe with. Win/win.

This is what I think about when I ride…. Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 5

Miles: 116

Climbing: 5,900’

Mph Avg: 15.4

Calories: 6,600

Seat Time: 7 hours 34 minutes

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from The Grip Weeds. Enjoy…

Fighting Sadness With Gratitude…

Some things I think about when ride, I just can’t write about. Some good friends are currently dealing with unimaginable adversity in their lives. Their pain is not my pain though, and their story isn’t my story to share. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about them — and feeling secondhand pain, which quickly turns into sadness.

When I think about my gratitude, for all I have and all I am, it’s often rooted in the adversity of others. It comes from the pain, trauma, and turmoil that life throws at people, who in all cases, aren’t deserving of it. As tragedy has struck my friends recently, it was a reminder that tragedy could knock on my door any day, unannounced, and dressed in black.

It constantly bubbles in the depths of my thinking — the whole idea that I’m just one phone call away from a really bad day, and a life changed forever. Some friends have received such phone calls lately, and my heart breaks for them, daily. It also reminds me how fortunate I am. I’m not sure where this comes from, or if it’s even normal, but when I see others facing trauma, I find comfort in my gratitudes.  

Gratitude for my family, my pets, my home, and my livelihood. I have gratitude that I’m still able to dream and live to pursue those dreams, while others who’ve been struck by tragedy, find their dreams stifled, distant, and obscured by grief. Most days, I feel I have more than I deserve. I wish I could give that gratitude to my friends in need, but gratitude isn’t a form of currency.

I understand when tragedy hits somebody head-on, they’re not thinking in terms of gratitude, they shouldn’t be, and that’s not what I’m suggesting. What I am suggesting, is when somebody close to me experiences tragedy or trauma, and I’m tempted to glean their pain, I fight that temptation by embracing my gratitudes.

Anyway, I rode a bike yesterday and thought about some friends I love, and the phone calls that changed their lives forever. Be kind today, please. 

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This week by the numbers…

Bikes Ridden: 4

Miles: 123

Climbing: 6’100’

Mph Avg: 14.8

Calories: 6,900

Seat Time: 8 hours 20 minutes

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Rusted Root. Enjoy…

2022: The Spoke In Review…

My final post for 2022. It’s been a fantastic year, on and off the bike. Rather than bore you with my usual end-of-year wrapup shtick, I’m simply sharing my favorite smartphone pictures from the last 12-months. 

Many of these were taken during my daily bicycle rides, others from walks with my dog, and any pictures that look like they’re from beyond southern California, were taken on the two cross-country trips I took during the summer. 

I thank you in advance for taking time to flip through these. You can click them to enlarge them, or just throw the whole thing in your trash file. All pictures were taken with an iPhone 11, and the only filters used were occasional contrast or brightness adjustments. There were no color adjustments on any pictures.

Wishing you all the very best in the coming year. Thanks again for taking the time…

Jhciacb 

The Best Thing On Earth…

Preface: I was born an East Coast Jew. My first job was as a sandwich maker in a Jewish deli, owned by an Austrian holocaust survivor. My father, also an East Coast Jew, ensured we had bagels each Sunday morning as far back as I can remember, up until I left home at 16. 

There’s that whole game we play — if we were stranded on a deserted island for a year, what’s the first thing we’d want to eat after being rescued…?

Most of the guys I know would say a steak, pizza, lasagna, a mug of beer — stuff like that. Most of the women I know would say a kale salad and wouldn’t mean it. What they’d really want would be a baked brie and a glass of wine, but they’d never admit it.

Me…? I’ll take a bagel, but probably more than one. And after a year on a deserted island, I’ll take all the bagels, please. 

Bagels are the best things on earth. Honest to God, I can’t think of a better thing to eat, whether I’m hungry or not. Not chocolate, not pizza, not a lobster tail, but a bagel. And just about any variety of bagel will do. The salt bagel is my preference, with plain being next, egg bagel, and then the everything bagel. But there’s no such thing as a bad bagel, only different levels of good. 

But if I’d been stranded on a deserted island for a year, I wouldn’t want a bagel that’s been tainted with cream cheese, whitefish, or lox. That’s stupid. I could live to be a thousand years old and never understand why somebody would ruin a perfectly good bagel with dead fish and milk paste…🤷🏼‍♂️

There’s only one best way to eat a bagel and I’m going to share that with you now, per my previously mentioned qualifications…

You toast a bagel. 

You toast it until it’s golden brown with a little black around the edges. Then, as soon as it comes out of the toaster, you cover it with butter — whipped butter, but not that unsalted shit. In fact, you sprinkle a little extra kosher sea salt onto the butter as it’s melting into the bagel.

Then you eat the bagel, and you eat it immediately. And in the case of a toasted, buttered bagel, it’s okay to eat it like a pig. You can make sounds that come from your mouth or nose — doesn’t matter. You can take enormous bites and tear the remaining portion away from your teeth like a caveman chewing the leg off of dead rabbit. Gosh, I’m getting worked up just writing about it.

Anyway, that’s what I was thinking about when I was riding yesterday. And I wanted to share my opinion with you, because I’m as qualified to tell you how to eat a bagel as anyone you know. Now go enjoy a perfectly toasted, hot, buttered bagel. You can thank me later. 

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb 

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along with me today. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Big Head Todd And The Monsters. Enjoy…

Mischa Gets The Nod…

Before I leave to ride each afternoon, I put one of the critters in charge of the house while I’m gone — to ensure no intruders get in. I sit on the sofa between Mischa Kitty and Stroodle Dog and it goes like this…

“Mischa, you get the nod today. Stroodle will be your lieutenant and backup if needed, but otherwise it falls on you. Use your cunning first, and your ability to reason. Use your teeth and claws only if you need to. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. When I return, you can have the evening off…”

On the days Stroodle gets the nod, Mischa is lieutenant and backup. On Sundays they both get the day off, but are essentially on-call when I’m gone.

Before I close the door, I ask if either one has any questions. Neither has ever asked me a question — a sign of their respect for my authority. As I pedal from the driveway I’m confident that, whoever’s in charge, my home is in good hands. Ehr, good paws.

Stroodle is 20 now, and slowing down. In our time together, we’ve shared seven homes. In that time he’s flawlessly protected each one. As I’m now contemplating my own retirement, it occurs to me that Stroodle’s working days should be behind him. He’s paid his dues.

Before I left yesterday, I sat with Mischa and Stroodle and had an overdue discussion. I explained to Stroodle that his working days are done. Mischa, now 9, was handed the torch. In time, I told her, there will be another critter, most likely a dog, to share the responsibilities. However, for the foreseeable future, it’s going to be her gig. She’ll still get Sundays off, and on the days Mischa’s not feeling well, Stroodle can pick up a shift here and there if he’s up for it.

It may seem eccentric or even crazy that I talk to my critters this way, and that they have assigned responsibilities. The ritual is good for all of us though — it’s a way that we bond through the sound of my voice, and it gives them a sense of purpose, And for a small portion of my day, somebody actually listens to me.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. Oh, and there’s this from Billy Joe Shaver & Company. Enjoy…

1491…

It should go without saying that, after eight days off the bike, it felt good to get out yesterday. I wasn’t sure what I’d be thinking about or how my legs would feel, but it didn’t take long for it all to settle in.

I just drove from Philadelphia to San Diego — my daughter borrowed my car for a couple of months and I flew out to retrieve it. Though I logged a lot of interstate miles, I made sure to get off the freeway for at least a couple stretches of road each day. I drove some state and county roads, and even a few dirt roads used mostly by farmers in the Midwest. I wanted to be places I’ve never been and see things I’d never seen. Mission accomplished. Those stretches of road, off the interstate, were the highlights of my summer.

The landscape of this country has always inspired me. It’s as diverse as the people who’ve inhabited it through the millennia. So when I chose the audiobook 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus (2005), by Charles Mann, I thought it would be the perfect soundtrack as I traversed and viewed this thoroughly modern landscape.

I read 1491 from cover to cover shortly after it was published, and I’ve listened to the updated audiobook twice since. It’s a fascinating account of the Americas prior to the European influence. It dispells, and often times blows out of the water, many conceptions and ideas we have of pre-Columbian Americas. 

When the book was released in 2005, it was reviewed well by book critics, but academics — historians, anthropologists, and archaeologists pushed back. Academia suggested Mann took too many big leaps at once. In the decade and a half since being published, academia has caught up with Mann’s big leaps, and many support his far reaching thesis. 

Mann makes four major arguments in the book and subtly sneaks in two lesser ones toward the end…

  1. That the Americas were settled much longer ago than previously believed. Some estimates, based on archaeological evidence, suggest that human beings walked in the Americas as far back as 30,000 to 35,000 years ago.
  2. The population of the Americas was significantly greater at the time Europeans arrived. Estimates vary, but when they’re ammended, it’s always upward. Many scholars believe that the population of pre-Colombian Americas was between 80 million and 100 million.
  3. That pre-Columbian civilizations were greater, more complex, and interacted with one-another more than previously believed. 
  4. That American natives manipulated the land and wildlife to such a degree that they not only influenced, but created the landscape we know today. Assumptions that we’ve made about everything from bison population, to forests in New England, and the grasslands of the Midwest, are likely out of step with how they came into being. 

Two lesser arguments that Mann makes…

  1. The men who forged the documents that shaped our lives — the Founders, may have been influenced as much in matters of personal liberty, limited government, and personal responsibility by the natives they interacted with on a regular basis — more so even, than the enlightenment all-stars of France at the time. 
  2. That had the natives not succumb so quickly and in such large number to the diseases the Europeans gifted them, Europeans would have been no match for the natives in warfare and claiming eminent domain. At best, Europeans may have played a much smaller role in the advancement of the nation and exploitation of its resources. Mann presents evidence, from New England all the way to the Peru, that on an even playing field, natives of all varieties were better warriors and more prepared for battle and the Europeans. They lacked only the numbers due to the diseases that cut them down by as much is 85% in the first 150 years. 

As I said, 1491 was the perfect book to accompany me on a trip from the East Coast to Southern California. From the forests of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, through the farms of the upper Midwest, to the great plains and the grasslands, across the Rocky Mountains, and into the desert southwest, 1491 was a great tour guide, providing detail and meaningful lessons in how far we’ve come and how far we fallen — simultaneously.

This is what I think about when I ride — and drive… Jhciacb

It’s back to the bike for me this week. And as much I enjoyed my travels, it’ll be nice to get back into the routine again. Oh, and there’s this from Robert Jon & The Wreck. Enjoy…

(all images taken from an iPhone 11. No color adjustments, and only slight contrast adjustments on a few)

Shit Or Get Off The Blog…

From my Facebook page this morning, Sunday, September 4….

This is the 8th Sunday this year I haven’t posted an essay to my WordPress blog. Prior to 2022, I hadn’t missed a Sunday blog since I began it in 2017. I guess the WordPress blog has become a lesser priority.

The WordPress blog was intended to be a creative outlet for my writing, to share my smartphone photos, and as a platform to express how cycling helps me fight the depression and idiopathic sadness that I live with from day-to-day. I had no intention that it would blow up, get discovered, or be something I could monetize. Mostly it was just a digital postcard to let people know where I am and what I’m up to.

Hosting this page concurrent with that blog, I often wondered why I needed both, and didn’t just focus on one or the other. The short answer is that many subscribers of the blog aren’t on Facebook, and most of my Facebook connections are too lazy or technically illiterate to open a link to the blog 😜. I’m not talking about you though.

Anyway, the main reason I’ve kept the WordPress blog active is for the few friends and family I have that aren’t on Facebook. Facebook, for better or worse, are my people. Christ, I can’t believe I just said that…🤦🏼‍♂️🤦🏼‍♂️🤦🏼‍♂️

So the WordPress blog will remain, but probably be a once, maybe twice a month endeavor. Most Sunday mornings now, I can be found right here — the same place I can be found every other morning ending in the letter “y”.

Of course it would make sense that later today I actually post this on my WordPress blog, so the subscribers there will know to look for me here — which means this won’t be the 8th Sunday in 2022 that I failed to post on the WordPress blog, but anyways…

So if you’re reading this on WordPress today, and you want to read my stuff regularly, please check out my Spoke And Word page on Facebook.

This is what I think about when I ride… Jhciacb

This Week By The Numbers…

172 miles
7,600’ climbing
15.0 mph avg
9,700 calories
11 hours 32 minutes seat time

Whether you ride a bike or not, thank you for taking the time to ride along this week. If you haven’t already, please scroll up and subscribe. If you like what you read, give it a like and a share. If not, just keep scrollin’. Oh, and there’s this from Deacon Blue. Enjoy…!